Ricky ignored all of us. He became industrious enough to mount a light on the garage roof, illuminating his small playing field for night games of catch. That this light also illuminated our bedroom was not something Ricky was thinking about. Ricky, we had discovered, didn’t think about other people, except as a means to an end.
The Suburban Avenger had been waiting for this night. The Nabbit’s car had been parked in front of her house, doors unlocked. She secured the frozen anchovy under the seat springs, driver’s side. She might not be present when the discovery was made, still she would know that revenge had been, well, reeked…
It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in September when the hardball hit the bedroom window, shattering it. I was in another room, and rushed in to see large shards of glass on my husband’s pillow, splinters of glass everywhere else. If the game of catch had taken place a few hours earlier, or later…I ran outside.
Two boys, Ricky and a kid he called Ted, stared up at the broken window. Although no one else played baseball anywhere near my home, I suspect they would have run away without owning up to the damage. But to Ricky’s great misfortune, Sarah had been in her front yard when the baseball was thrown.
Nola came out of her house, too, ready to defend her chick against Sarah-until she saw the window.
“It’s Ted’s fault,” Ricky said immediately. “He was supposed to catch it.”
I reached down and picked up the ball, which had been prevented from going though the window by the screen.
“Hardball?” Nola shrieked. “What got into you, Ricky? Playing with a goddamned hardball!”
Ricky had no answer.
Looking nervously between Sarah and me, she grabbed on to her son’s elbow and said, “This is going to come out of the money you earned at the swap meet, Ricky.” I groaned inwardly, wondering which of my neighbors’ stolen goods might be sold to pay for my window. “I think you owe this lady an apology,” Nola went on. I got a grudging “Sorry,” from Ricky and Ted.
She eyed the window. “I think I’ve got a piece of glass that might fit,” she said. “Ricky can fix it.”
“No thanks,” I said, envisioning Ricky with an opportunity to case my house for a future burglary. “I’d rather have a professional glass company do it.”
The glass company charged forty-five dollars to fix the window. That left us with the clean-up. I did that myself. I told Ricky he could pay me back in five-dollar increments over nine weeks. He smiled and said that would be fine.
When the first payment was due and no five dollar bill appeared, I interrupted the next baseball game. A complicated tale of woe that would have won applause from Scherazade was given to me, along with the information that Ted would be paying for the window, not Ricky.
“We’ll have it tomorrow for sure,” Ted said. Ricky just smiled.
My husband and I began arguing. I should have asked for all of the money from Nola on the day it happened, he said. I never should have made the agreement about the five dollars. I was too soft. I should have let him handle it. We were never going to see that forty-five dollars.
More days and more tales of woe, more smiles from Ricky and more arguments between my husband and me. Finally-after my husband refused to be budged from Nola’s front doorstep, a payment was made. Twenty of the forty-five.
Sarah and I became better friends. It dawned on me that she had long sought an ally in her own battles with the Nabbits. “Don’t let the Nabbits turn us into rabbits,” she would proclaim.
At eleven p.m., the Suburban Avenger sought her secret weapon. The baseball game had just ended, but the lights were still glaring on the field. The Nabbits had driven off to the store to buy more beer. The Avenger took the ice cold water from the refrigerator and filled the trusty spray bottle. She knew she only had a few moments to act. She took her stance, steadied her weapon. Stream setting again. Squeezed the trigger. Her aim, perfected from practice on a certain Bassett hound, was true. As the icy water hit each hot light bulb, the bulbs went out with a satisfying pop and the Avenger returned to her hideout with time to spare…
The city changed to automated trash collection in October, and like other households, our four, individual, thirty-gallon trash cans were replaced with one large, wheeled monstrosity provided by the city. The rules were clearly stated. The attached lid on the new container must be closed when placed at the curb. No overloading. If you threw away more than fit in the trash can, you paid a charge for excess trash.
With two adults using a trash can designed to hold the trash of a family of five, we had no problems staying within the limits. But from the first week of the new program, there was trouble. I put the trash out, and went inside. Later, when I went out to place the recycling bin at the curb, I noticed our trash can, like the Nabbits’, was overflowing. When I lifted the lid, I discovered that the Nabbits had placed several bags of their trash into our trash can.
I began to wait until Nola had left for work to put the trash out. Inconvenient, but effective. And it meant that I put the trash out every week, instead of sharing the chore with my husband.
My husband bewildered me by siding with Nola on this issue. He thought my outrage was wholly unjustified. “What if they’re dumping something toxic into our trash can? Something illegal?” I asked.
“It’s just trash,” he said. Then, for good measure, added, “We’ll never see that twenty-five dollars.”
It was after he left for work that morning that my Suburan Avenger fantasies began. As the afternoon wore on, I was shocked at the avenues my own imagination would take in the name of righteous anger. I wanted to plant my fist in Ricky’s smiling face.
In the next moment, I was ashamed of myself for thinking such a thing. Was this the result of watching westerns as a kid? Too much violence on T.V.? Was I reading too many mysteries?
I calmed down. The Suburban Avenger would be forced to stay in the realm of imagination. I needed to find a legal remedy. I went to the library and checked out a well-worn book on suing in small claims court, and began the process. I was finally becoming a true Californian. I was going to sue someone.
I realized that I had only heard the Nabbit’s last name. Were there two t’s or one? Two b’s or one? I tried the phone directory. No Nola Nabbit listing.
The Suburban Avenger whispered in my ear.
I let my husband put the trash out.
After he left for work, but long before the garbage trucks arrived, I checked my trap. Sure enough, the trash can was bulging with added material. I felt nothing but smug satisfaction as I pulled a bag of Nabbit trash from the trash can, took it into my backyard and set it on a table I used for gardening.
My excitement built as I rummaged-wearing old clothes and a pair of rubber gloves-though the Nabbit bag. Few things can tell our secrets as throughly our trash will. The courts had long ago ruled that once a person put their trash out at a curb, the expectation of privacy was gone. Trash was fair game. Even if Nola hadn’t dumped the bag in my trash can, it would have been legal to search it. Still, I felt better knowing that she had walked the bag over to my side of the street. She should keep her trash out of my trash can, or be prepared to suffer the consequences.
It didn’t take long to find an envelope addressed to Nola. It was marked “Please open immediately” and came from the electric company. It contained a past due notice. I didn’t want to slog through the beer bottles, coffee grounds and cigarette butts that made up the next layer of the bag. I had what I needed. Feeling bad about not recycling the beer bottles, but knowing their presence in my recycling bin would be a dead giveaway, I hauled the Nabbit trash bag back out to the container at the curb.
I typed up the forms needed to begin the process of suing Nola, and filed them down at the courthouse. She bellowed her outrage in her typical fashion when the papers were served.